


If Love Be Rough, Part Two

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Would Smell As Sweet [5]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Hux/Matt, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-01-04 06:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12163371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Hux's life is falling apart. Kylo-Ben-whoeverthefuckheisis entirely at fault. Even if it is, in fact, decidedly not his fault.Kylo is having a great time. Sort of. Maybe. Not really. When old friends come for a visit, he is forced to confront the fact that he is living what may very well be a lie.Will there be a reunion? Only time will tell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about any abrupt changes in tense. I think I got them all, but I've read this over so many times I can't tell any more.
> 
> I've been sitting on this chapter since I posted the last installment and I just want to get it out there. I need to finish something, you know? So I had inspiration to come back to this an thought I should go for it. The tags are a little vague because Kylo's part isn't quite finished yet and I don't want to spoil the whole damn thing. Enjoy?

Hux presses his teeth into his bottom lip, moan vibrating through the icy-cold wine pooled on his tongue. Sweet, bubby Moscato tickles at his senses and fills his head with fizzles while Kylo presses a thick finger into him.

“Slow, _slow_.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, uncomfortable for a moment before _pop!_ -goes the tension in his body against the middle joint of Kylo’s finger. Hux shivers and swallows and takes a final gulp from his glass. He’s afraid that he’s going to shatter the thing in his shaking hand when Kylo mercifully takes it from him and sets it down on the nightstand.

Kylo had brought the wine over, paired with a smirk. _Why do you lie about the things you like?_

Hux flushed and snatched the bottle from his hands and went into the kitchen to uncork it.

Kylo’s hands looked so elegant cradling the gentle curves of the stemless glass.

_I don’t lie._

_You just deny things vehemently. Pretend to be something you’re not._

They moved into the bedroom, the cool evening air tickling over them there and more room to stretch out in the bed than on the couch—more space to get tangled up in each other.

_Stop trying to be a poet. It’s not that deep._

Hux kissed him to quiet him, melted into plush lips and sticky sweetness. Now, he grips the sheets, weight settled onto his elbows. Kylo lounges almost elegantly, a heavy leg draped over Hux’s shins as if trying to keep him there. With the wine glass safely aside, he leans in and presses his face into the tight space between Hux’s neck and shoulder. Insistent lips suck against his hammering pulse, low enough to hide under his collar—Kylo was often amused by his own consideration for Hux’s maintenance of decorum.

Kylo doesn’t move his finger, at least not with clumsy little stabs that too many of Hux’s partners seemed to think were pleasurable. Hux bares down, lets Kylo in, and swears under his breath at the steady upward pressure on his rim that Kylo applies.

“Oh, _Maker_ , that’s good.”

“Want more?”

“Yes. Another.”

Kylo spends long minutes pressing and stretching with one finger before he slides it out and back in again alongside a second. He makes slow work of it, taking what Hux is sure is a full sixty seconds to sink back in to the second knuckle, and another before his index and little finger are digging into Hux’s buttocks and Kylo’s palm is warm against his balls.

Hux swears under his breath, attempts to draw his knees up from under Kylo’s heavy leg.

“Can I suck you?” His mind is sluggish, Kylo’s voice filtering in through the hammering of his heart in his ears and his ragged breathing. “Mm?” A wide, wet swipe of Kylo’s tongue behind his ear turns Hux’s spine to jelly.

“Yeah—yeah—please.”

“Do you want me to grab a rubber?”

Hux’s ears prickle with heat and turn an embarrassed red. The color creeps down toward his chest and Kylo watches him expectantly though heavy eyelashes. _He’s got to be wearing fakes._ Hux nearly laughs at the thought of trying to see if he might snatch them off.

Kylo runs his thumb hard into the join of his thigh and groin. Hux drops back heavily, inadvertently jarring the slowly probing fingers inside of him. “Do you want to?”

“No. I think we could do without.”

Hux shivers, Kylo carefully leaning all of his weight onto one elbow and shifting onto his knees. The wet kiss he presses against Hux’s protruding hipbone cools quickly in the evening breeze through the window. “Okay.”

 

***

 

Hux wakes to the eerie greyish light that filters through the neat rows of buildings just after the sun rises and before it settles in earnest in the sky. His cock is so hard it hurts.

Flushed with heat, a sheen of sweat over his limbs making the tangle of his pajama pants that much harder to shift back properly, Hux struggles out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom. He cranks on the hot water in the shower and nearly topples himself into the tub head-first in disrobing.

“Stop it,” he scolds himself as he stands under the near-scalding spray. “You’re done with him.”

There had been texts, from what was now an unknown number, asking him if he was okay, if Kylo had offended him in some way.

Hux called back. Eventually. Said that he just didn’t have the time to continue their arrangement; that he needed to focus on his work.

It hadn’t been a lie. Not entirely. _Starkiller_ was taking off and needed his undivided attention. Hux was required at this point to make himself available to people in multiple time zones, none of whom were willing to work cooperatively just yet.

Kylo stopped trying to contact him him; but he didn’t go away—still cropping up in the entertainment news, the cheap daily papers from the boxes on the corner. In the weeks after Hux had deleted Kylo’s number from his phone, it seemed that his face—Ben Solo’s face—was everywhere. Hux was determined not to pay the headlines any mind, didn’t care.

He couldn’t allow his time to be eaten up in bed. Nor could he allow himself to be entangled at such a crucial moment in _Starkiller_ with someone who might topple the whole damn thing by association.

Ben Solo had been a bad business move.

Hux turns the temperature of the water down to something more tolerable, failing completely in willing his wood away. He fumbles with the soap, knocking it from the ledge and scrambling to grab the small hunk before it washed toward the open drain.

Hands slippery, he winces at the first stroke. He leans into the warm water, tension melting out of his shoulders with the hard fall and each pump of his fist. Shuddering, he thinks of Kylo’s face—heavily hooded eyes and the flushed apples of his cheeks—glossy hair gripped in Hux’s fist—his ridiculous mouth splattered spend in a way that he manages to make look elegant—the pink tip of Kylo’s tongue darting out to slide along his crown, even as he holds tight to that hair, totally overstimulated.

Hux comes with a gasp that sends water down the wrong pipe and leaves him sputtering and shaking, leaning heavily against the slick tile wall.

He scowls at himself in the mirror after, parting his still damp hair carefully to one side and combing it into place as he peers through the film of condensation on the glass. “Nonsense,” he mutters, jabbing his fingers into the pot of wax on the sink. “Absolute, kriffing nonsense.” He runs his fingers roughly through his hair, forcing it down into its usual shape.

On his way, he holds tight to the pole in the middle of the subway car, determined not to slip or be bumped off balance by the novice straphanger with the oversized backpack he’s smooshed in beside. If the overcrowded train is an omen for how his day will proceed, it doesn’t bode well.

Hux has barely stepped into the building that houses the American branch of _First Order_ when things start to go to complete hell.

His badge doesn’t work, cracked somewhere along the way between exiting the building the night before and now. He’s put through the hassle and humiliation of showing his identification and having an awful, grainy photo taken. It gets printed on a sticky label and slapped on his lapel.

_HUX, ARMITAGE_

_SECURITY AND EMPLOYEE PROCESSING_

_0712 HRS…_

It’s ridiculous. They know very well who he is. Hux grinds his teeth as he rides the lift down into the bowels of the building and makes his way toward the security offices. Six people in identical white uniform shirts and black slacks populate the front office. They watch banks of computer screens, live feeds of corridors and offices and the lifts on each of them.

“Mr. Hux,” one of them says, a curious look on their face. “What brings you down here?”

Hux waves a hand dismissively and peels the offending label from his lapel and wads it up between his fingers. He pitches it across the counter at the front of the room, sinking it into the waste basket. He shows his cracked card and the security worker directs him around the counter to a room tucked into the corner.

“Want a new picture, long as you’re here?”

“I just want to get to work, thank you.”

“Understood, sir.” The old card gets tossed into heavy-duty shredder and Hux is directed to place his thumb on a scanner to confirm his identity. A huge printer whines and clunks as it warms up and works to press ink into a new card. The security worker scans it and taps at keys on a computer for a moment before turning to Hux with an amiable expression. The card is still warm from the printer when he takes it. “Give us a call if you have any trouble.”

Hux gestures in thanks with the card, “Will do.”

It doesn’t stop when he reaches his office. Every team seems to be in an uproar, small crises in every pocket of the room that have converged into a catastrophe.

And yet, no one seems to need his attention—no one has run into his office with news of doom.

Hux sits at his desk and imagines the bridge of a hulking ship, himself as the commander, like something out of a syndicated sci-fi sitcom. The carefully controlled chaos on the floor is the tense play of galactic war-maneuvering flickering across battle stations instead of desktop computers.

Hux closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His fingers itch for a cigarette. The prescription bottle in his pocket feels like a lead weight.

His own computer _pings!_ out an alert and he turns to attend to it.

Stockholm.

Munich.

London.

Paris.

Tokyo.

The emails begin rolling in, frantic and panicked. Hux’s fingers fly over the keyboard, trying to allay their fears and assure them that whatever the root of this apparent problem is, that it is being handled.

His hands are trembling as he hits send once more. His _J_ key is jammed from the force with which he tapped it, an infinite stream of identical letters now appearing in the search box of his email inbox. He smashes his thumb against the key until it pops back up. His phone rings out a shrill tone and he snatches it up. The curly cord whips him in the face and he snarls into the receiver, “ _What_?”

“We’ve located the viral origin point.” Phasma is cool and collected on the other end of the line and Hux hates her for it.

“Well?”

“It’s you.”

“ _Excuse me_ —“

“Not you, personally, Mitt—obviously. It’s your server, someone did something. I honestly don’t know how it slipped under the radar after Stockholm. The only thing I can think of is that it was already there and someone coded it for a period of dormancy before infection.”

“What are we doing to solve the issue?”

“For starters, I’m sending Sanitation to you. Your office is going totally off-grid. They’re going to need any other tech you use for work as well. Laptop, phone, all of it.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I keep business and personal separate, isn’t it?”

Phasma snorts, “Someone will be up shortly. Make sure you’re decent.”

“Yes, of course, Phas. I’ll make sure the cockwarmer under my desk doesn’t have any spunk on his chin.”

Phasma ends the call with a bark of laughter. Hux pushes away from his desk and fishes the bottle from his jacket pocket. He fumbles with the top for a few frustrating seconds before he frees it. He swallows a pill dry and leans back in his chair, bridge of his nose pinched firmly between his fingers.

“Sir?”

The person standing in his doorway is broad and solid. He has a tablet in one hand and what appears to be a toolbox in the other. Hux almost laughs. The Janitor gives the impression of being impossibly young with his flawless complexion and rounded cheeks. Hux wonders if it wasn’t really a joke at the last major meeting that their elite cyber security division was now recruiting high school students.

The Janitor clears his throat politely when Hux doesn’t respond and steps fully into the office. “I’m from Sanitation, I’ve been assigned to—“

Hux shakes his head sharply. “Yes, I’ve just been on the phone with your superiors. I’ve been informed.” Hux doesn’t feel entirely at ease leaving his computer—his work—in the hands of a stranger. Even one who has been through the rigorous training that this particular person is required to have participated in; even knowing very well the extensive confidentiality sections that he would have been required to commit himself to as part of his employment package. It feels wrong, dangerous—and not in any kind of exciting way. “You can have my phone, but unfortunately my laptop is at home.”

The Janitor nods. “That’s alright, sir. I’ll get started here and you can bring the laptop tomorrow.”

He looks expectantly at Hux, who rises from his seat and smooths the wrinkles from his jacket and the front of his slacks.

“I suspect you need me to clear out of here.”

“Yes, sir.” He sets his tablet down on Hux’s desk, the toolbox beside it. “I’ve been briefed that you have several urgent communications that need to be attended to, but I’ll need to ask that you refrain from logging into your email on any other device at all. You shouldn’t open any documents or access your desktop remotely, either. The risk of further infection is too high at the moment, until we can completely isolate the virus.”

Hux looks him over. The badge hanging from his shirt pocket has a holographic film. The place where a photograph should have been instead shows a unique barcode-like image. Where Hux’s has his name in bold print, this one has an alphanumeric code.

_FN-2187_

Hux knew he’d implemented or suggested many of the protocols for that division himself. Anonymity was sometimes key in matters of security, especially those that the division that was nicknamed _Sanitation_ handled—the often highly emotional, multinational operations that _First Order_ dealt with. Still, it was occasionally disquieting.

“Well then,” Hux says as he rounds the desk. “I suppose I’m taking the afternoon off.”

“At least, sir. I will need you to bring your laptop in as soon as possible.”

“Would you prefer I retrieve it now?”

FN-2187 shakes his head and raises a brow as he approaches Hux’s seat. Hux nods curtly and FN-2187 sits, pulling himself in toward the keyboard. “First thing tomorrow is fine, sir. Are you still logged in?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’ll be all for now, sir.” FN-2187 smiles amiably and opens his toolbox, setting to work without another word.

Hux darkens Phasma’s doorway when he departs from his own. “Lunch?”

Phasma clicks through several windows before she answers in the affirmative. “I’ve already got an update from Sanitation, you know,” she says as they stride down the block toward a café. “You’re out of commission for the rest of the week at least, Mitt.”

They take a table near the window and place their order.

“Have they figured out where it came from yet?”

“No, they’re still following it back through the system. But we’ll know soon.”

“Then why can’t I work for a _week_ , Phasma, I can’t afford to lose time on _Starkiller_.”

“Because we need to scrub your server—and check all of the ones you’ve interacted with for infection.”

“This is not my—“

“I know it’s not your fault, Mitt. And we’ve already sent out a bug of our own—just… relax. If you’re at all capable of it.”

Hux accepts his coffee and sandwich with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself for a week.”

Phasma shrugs. “Isn’t it Broadway Week? See a show every night.”

Hux snorts into his coffee. “Theater isn’t exactly my thing, Phas.”

She makes a wistful sound and sips her iced chai. “Read a book. Spend a week on the beach. Go on a Tinder date.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m going to sit in my apartment while I chain smoke and drink.”

“I suppose that’s a better idea than the beach. Lifeguards are off-duty now. We both know how good you are at swimming.”

They fall into comfortable silence broken by the occasional comment on the people around them and their server checking in.

“Alright—I’ve got to head back.” Phasma puts a few bills down on the table. “Try not to stress over this. We’ll figure it out.”

Hux frowns, the expression desperate and ugly. “Phasma, I have no option other than _figuring it out_. If we can’t resolve this, I’m ruined.”

Her expression turns grim. “I know. It won’t come to that.” She turns for the door, calling over her shoulder as she goes. “Don’t forget that laptop in the morning!”

Hux watches her, the warm late-summer breeze whipping her hair into a platinum froth around her face. His fate is in her hands—in FN-2187’s hands—and although he trusts them, _he has to_ , he cannot quench the sick feeling in his stomach and chest.

_Starkiller_ cannot fail. It is everything that his time with _First Order_ has been leading to, it is what will put Armitage Hux on the map. It will make him a force to be reckoned with. Companies will be lining up to attempt to poach him. If it fails, he’ll be a laughingstock— _First Order_ will be.

Hux takes a deep, shaking breath and downs the remainder of the coffee in his mug. He’ll get through this.

That evening, his phone is silent. At some point he may have thought of it as blissfully so, but he is too tense to consider it now. He checks it, checks again, looking for a message from Phasma telling him that all is well and the virus has been isolated and the origin point located.

Hux scrolls through his text feeds, selecting and mass deleting messages from the limited circle of people who he deigned to give his personal number. He laughs, high and tense, and pours another portion from the growler on the coffee table.

_DID I DO SOMETHING WRONG?_

_HUX PLS ANSWER ME._

_IM SORRY IDK WHAT I DID BUT IM SORRY._

The number attached to the thread used to have a name. Hux snorts and drinks deeply, the _Alphabet City Blonde_ going down easy. The growler is emptier than it should be. Hux feels as if he’s floating an inch above the couch instead of sitting directly on it. He’s drunk and he knows it. He doesn’t care.

He skims through the thread, moving back in time until it turns from awkward and desperate to something… else. His cheeks flare with warmth. It prickles at his hairline and he knows his ears have turned red.

Hux tosses the phone aside and watches the screen wink out. He stares unseeingly at the television, losing track of what time it is, beer getting warm in the glass in his hand.

The evening news fades into the trashy nightly entertainment magazine. Hux watches with mild interest. He is not immune to public infatuation with celebrity—and it feels safe.

No reports about Secretary Organa’s political maneuvering. Nothing about her charming son making surprise appearances as charity events, no speculation about whomever appears on his arm or warring opinions on his relationship status. The news feeds on the internet are full of it, the society sections of the papers are too. The mindless drivel on the screen is like an oasis. There is no Kylo-Ben- _whoeverthefuck_ to consider in a stream of meaningless on-set interviews for next summer's big action blockbuster.

_And in non-movie news, let’s take a look at the New York social scene. This weekend’s Broken Valley Relief Fund Gala saw appearances from everyone who is anyone on the A-list—actors, musicians, artists, socialites, tech moguls, and politicians alike came out to attend the charity gala organized by the Renar and Organa Family foundations. At ten-thousand a head, even with the intimate event it almost seems modest that they raised three million dollars in addition for the Relief Fund._

Hux rolls his eyes. He, along with the other officers in the _First Order_ hierarchy had been given an invitation to the event. They declined, disinterested in rubbing elbows with mindless society sheep. Attending wouldn’t give them any kind of advantage—no one on the guest list could or would engage in their brand of business.

The finer points of the commentary smash against the micro-mesh filter of Hux’s brain, not quite registering far beyond his ears.

They talk about who showed up—and who didn’t—and what they were wearing—and what was served for dinner—and… they briefly detail what that cool three million would do.

_The highlight of the evening was an appearance by Ben Organa. Though not directly involved with the Organa Family Foundation, Ben has been seen more frequently at foundation functions over the last year. Sources close to the family say a rough break-up motivated Ben to throw himself more fully into the charitable division of the foundation after having retreated from public life for some time._

_The last significant appearance Ben made was at Secretary Organa’s swearing-in where he held a philosophic text belonging to Organa’s biological father while she took her oath of office. Previous to that, Ben had not been in the public eye for some time after beginning college._

A photo of Ben standing between a tall ginger woman in judge’s robes and his petite mother appears on screen, startling Hux out of his un-sober reverie. Ben looks nothing like Kylo. Hux is astonished and appalled.

_Whoever it was that broke Ben Organa’s heart is certainly not the handsome gentleman that has lately been on Ben’s arm. That mystery man is said to be a childhood friend of the family and unattached to Organa romantically._

A photo of Ben and shorter man, both in tuxedos, swipes across the screen. They appear to be attempting to get into a glossy black car, Ben physically blocking paparazzi from hounding his guest. Hux knows that glossy curl, that proud sway of shoulders. He picks up the remote and presses the power button down hard. It sticks and the television flickers.

_We’re sure to see Ben again around the winter holidays—the Organa Family Foundation is on the list of private backers for this year’s drive sponsoring the Corellian Survivors and Orphans Fund. Rumor has it, the auction to support the fund will include a date with Ben to the annual CorSec Awards Ball in January. Start saving now—the bidding will be open to non-attending, online watchers. Until then, we’ll wait and see if Ben might stay in the auction but come off the market. Travelers at Prestor International were tweeting and snapping up a frenzy today claiming to have spotted Ben carrying a young lady’s luggage away from a StarFlyer gate. The flight arriving at that time originated in South Africa—_

Hux sneers at the useless remote in his hand, pressing the button again and again. It unsticks but the signal won’t connect. Annoyed and processing it through the haze of the day’s stress and golden glow of the blonde in his belly, Hux hurls the remote at the screen. The LDC erupts in a wild rainbow of stripes, broken into sections radiating out from the point of impact.

The entertainment report drones on.

Hux stands and strides the short distance across the room to where the television is mounted. He shoves the shelving beneath out of the way and yanks the cord from the outlet.

“ _Enough_ ,” he spits, staring at himself in the reflection of the now-black screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ yell at me about these assholes over on tumblr](http://avaahren.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> please do consider commenting <3


	2. Chapter 2

Kylo slides into the cockpit of the rental. It’s sleek and shiny and looks like something an important person should be driven around in, like there should be a privacy screen between the front and the back.

No— _no._

Ben slides into the driver’s seat.

Last night he was Kylo.

He was free and wonderful and powerful. He held a packed room, a hundred strong, entirely in his sway. They writhed on the floor, bodies sweating and moving—mouths wet and warm and wanting—hands grasping, grabbing, reaching—voices rising up to meet him. He’d sat at the bar after, let himself be offered drinks and touched, sly kisses against his cheek or the corner of his mouth—the promise of something he wouldn’t give—they’d be hustled into a cab and sent on their way with the hope of another time, another show, another drink at the bar.

Kylo Ren was the master of many, pulling strings with a glance and a note.

Ben is just adrift.

He makes his way through the heavy traffic. He’s an hour early but after the gala and the invasive way the press _pressed_ , he wants to find a spot that will lend him a quick getaway should the need arise. Lassa doesn’t need to deal with all of that right off a flight from halfway across the world.

Ben circles through the airport. He’s gotten good over the last few months at spotting the types of cars that mean he’ll be surrounded by cameras and tape recorders. He doesn’t see any, breathes a sigh of relief as he pulls into the short term lot and finds an empty spot. He looks at himself in the rearview mirror. He hasn’t slept, his hangover threatens at the edges of everything.

He grabs his hat, pulling it down low over his ears and covering most of his brow. He looks a bit awkward, all of his hair twisted up into a knot under the knit.

“Dammit,” he mutters. He’ll just draw attention to himself if he walks in looking like he’s trying to hide--up to no good or someone just trying to fly under the radar, it won't make a difference. He yanks the hat off of his head and tosses it into the back seat, pushes the hair that’s fallen from the knot behind his ears.

Ben is tense as he makes his way toward the arrival gates. He checks the board, sees that Lassa’s flight is still listed as on-time. He sits in Starbucks, feet dangling from the double-high stool while he sips the largest coffee they have on offer. The place is overly-crowded and the music is too loud. With the purplish bags under his eyes and the sallow tint to his cheeks, he blends in with the rest. He keeps his nose close to his phone, watching the minutes tick by while he guides the little running character on the screen across chasms and around tight turns.

Finally, the game pauses itself, a notification overriding the motion control.

_JUST LANDED! CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOUR BIG FACE._

Ben smiles to himself and shakes his head, fires back a message that he’ll be waiting and makes his way over to the right gate.

He sees Lassa before she spots him, chuckles softly at the sight of her. She’s a bright spot in the sea of tired travelers, fluorescent lighting setting her aglow. Nothing about her is subtle from the cotton-candy cloud of her hair to the metallic heels of her boots. He watches her scan the crowd, wondering if she’ll recognize him outside of the confines of a video call. He has his answer when her face lights up and she hop-skips through the slower passengers around her looking for their own.

Ben laughs when Lassa throws her arms around him, letting out a surprised _oomph!_ when her backpack slides off her shoulder and smacks him hard in the side.

“Benny!”

He laughs again when she squeezes, planting a lipstick-kiss on his cheek. “Sass!”

“You’re taller than I remember.”

“You’re pinker.” Lassa snorts and tosses her head when she lets him go. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Mm, let’s—I’ve had enough of airports for a while.”

“Bad flight?”

“That’s the understatement of the year.” Lassa links her arm though his and steers him toward the luggage carousel. “Be a gentleman.”

Ben smirks, “Always.”

“ _Pfft_ —that’s a terrible lie, Benny.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She rolls her eyes when he grins, lifting her suitcase off of the slow moving conveyor. “ _Maker_ , what the hell is in here?”

“Clothes, shoes, a small car. The usual.” Lassa points regally with her chin. “To my hotel, please.”

Ben presses his lips together to keep from laughing, “Yes, ma’am.”

 

***

 

_Lassa Chuchi, granddaughter of Riyo Chuchi, former representative of Pantora to the United Nations, has been seen on the arm of America's sweetheart, Ben Organa, on the streets of New York City. Chuchi is a law student at the University of Cape—_

“Sass, turn it off.” Ben frowned at the television. “I don’t want to hear any more of this shit.”

“American media is fascinating.”

“Invasions of privacy are fascinating?”

Lassa mutes the television and sits down on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, waiting for Ben to distribute the food they’ve just been delivered by room service. The captions appear at the bottom of the screen and she seems to be keeping one eye on them while they eat.

“I’ve been here a week and already they think we’re together?”

Ben’s cheeks glow pink and warm. He shoves a pile of salad greens in his mouth. The tines of his fork clack painfully against his teeth.

“And since when are you _America’s sweetheart_?”

“Last few months.”

“I thought you were the press’s favorite chew-toy, what changed?”

“I have no idea.”

“Why are they interested in you again?”

Ben clenched his jaw. “I had too much free time on my hands so I started working for the foundation.”

“Ben Organa with free time?”

“Yup. Some gossip blog decided I looked good in a suit, then a few of the local papers did sort of _prodigal son_ stories,” he trails off, watching himself turn a stern expression on someone off-screen. “It’s not like I actually went anywhere. They just lost interest when I stopped taking the bait.” He recognizes the backdrop of the event carpet as the Broken Valley benefit. “Lassa, please just turn it off.”

She raises a brow and thumbs at the power button on the remote. The television winks into darkness and Ben visibly relaxes. “How do you think they know who I am? It’s not like _I’m_ America’s sweetheart—“

“Stop.”

They eat in silence. Ben clears their dishes and leaves the tray in the hall. When he returns Lassa has a sweater on and is slipping her feet into a pair of sneakers. “I’ve been here a week and I haven’t seen Central Park yet. I want to go sit on a giant mushroom.”

He snorts, tension forgotten. “Alright, let’s go.”

They walk through the park, following looping pathways leading from Whills Circle—Lassa stopping to marvel at the seventy-six foot high statue at its center, a marble carving of a nameless member of the Ancient Order high atop traffic and surrounded by bronze relief—up and across to the massive storybook fantasy scene.

Ben laughs, watching her hoist herself up on the shorter mushrooms and settle in beside Alice. She fishes in her bag for a moment and produces a pen from somewhere in its depths. “They're missing a caterpillar.” Lassa poses with the cap of the pen between her teeth, poised as if smoking. Ben shakes his head, snapping a photo on his phone before she slides down. “Send that to me, Granny will be horrified.”

“How is she?” Ben bumps shoulders with someone as they pass too closely on the path. He apologizes and gets a grunt in response.

“Alright. Slowing down—she’s in her eighties, can’t expect her to be running around like she used to anymore.” Lassa links her arm through Ben’s and leads him back onto the path. “You know, I was having my weekly phone call with her right before I left. She was telling me about—oh, gosh, I can’t even remember what year she said it was—the Privacy Bill—when she and Padme were both on the General Assembly. Does Leia ever talk about her?”

Ben shrugs. “Not unless I ask, but her and Luke didn’t know Padme at all. So it’s all sort of second-hand knowledge anyway.”

Lassa nods knowingly. “Miss Ahsoka was just by for a visit.”

“Really? I haven’t seen her since—I don’t know when the last time I saw her was.”

She makes a thoughtful sound. “Maybe a month ago? You know how she never stays in one spot long, even at her age. I was home for a long weekend. I haven’t seen Granny that excited in a long time. It was like they were a pair of teenagers or something.”

Ben hums in response, not sure what to say.

“Our conversations are much more exciting when we’re on different continents.”

“I think we exhausted all our _new_ news between the airport and the hotel,” Lassa snorts. She unlinks their arms to tug her sweater closed and links them again. “How’s that business with the band? The Knights of the Round Table?”

“Knights of Ren.” Ben raises a brow, mildly offended. “It’s going. We play a lot—more than I ever thought we would.”

“Will you have a show before I leave?”

“Yeah! We’ve got one coming up.” Ben grins, feeling light and wanting to share his music with her—thinking, knowing, _hoping_ that she would understand it.

“Alright, I’m too cold. Coffee?”

“Coffee.”

Ben tugs her close, slinging a heavy arm around her shoulders and rubbing a bicep to warm her up when he notices the gooseflesh rising on her forearms. They make their way toward the edge of the park, stumbling out of the trees and across the cobbled sidewalk of Central Park East just as it begins to rain.

“No!” Lassa gasps, flinging her hands up in attempt to shield herself.

“Here,” he says as he shrugs off his jacket, tenting it over her head. “There’s an Italian place a few blocks down. We can get over-priced cappuccino and pastries.”

“Ben?”

“Poe should be in the city soon. He was supposed to take the day off—we’ve got those tickets for—“

“ _Ben._ ”

“Yeah?”

The rain patters gently against his jacket over their heads. He looks like the monster under the bed crawled out to growl _hello_ with his arms poised in the air. Tension creeps across his shoulders, into his jaw.

“We’re being followed.”

“Yeah.”

“Creep-o with a cell phone.”

Ben closes his eyes and tries to calm the irritation rising from his belly and tickling behind his teeth. He breathes in deeply and turns slowly, careful to shield Lassa from the steadily falling rain.

Loitering on the edge of the path into the park, a man in a quickly darkening sweatshirt scuffs his feet against the cobbles and looks at his phone as if trying to decide his position on a map. Recognition flickers across synapses—a bump on the shoulder.

Ben drops the coat to an annoyed little huff from Lassa as it crushes her hair. He reels, taking one long stride closer.

“You!” The man looks up, feigning surprise. “Yes, you—karking _nerfherder_ —why are you following us?”

“I’m not following you, buddy.”

“Who the fuck are you with? TMZ or something?”

The man’s cheeks flush slightly and he lifts the phone. “So where’s your boyfriend, Organa? Or did you leave him for _Strawberry Shortcake_ over there?”

“Ben, don’t—“ Lassa hardly gets a word in.

Ben feels himself go warm from head to toe. He clenches his fists and sucks in a loud breath. The _creep-o_ ’s eyes grow wide and he takes a step back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing this series being discussed on my twitter timeline thing recently has been wild. I hope you're all enjoying it as much as it seems like you are--or at least enjoying the not-sexy parts as much as the others.


	3. Chapter 3

Hux lasts two more days.

To his credit, he only texts Phasma twice. When she tells him to bugger off, he does.

He doesn’t drink any more after that first night. The hangover isn’t worth it. He’s useless and miserable with a raging headache and a twisted stomach. He can’t seem to drink enough water to quench the thirst that grips him.

He does finish the pack of cigarettes ferreted away in his nightstand. His chest burns and his mouth tastes stale, but it keeps him from emptying the prescription bottle that stays in his pocket like a dead weight.

He doesn’t get his next refill for two more weeks, he’s already running low. He doesn’t want to lie to his doctor when the pharmacy calls to get the okay for an early fill. He knows that in the state he’s in it’ll look suspicious—bloodshot and sallow and reeking of cigarette smoke.

On the third morning he wakes and takes a scalding shower. The steam fills his lungs and curls around his limbs. He feels cleansed. His hands shake while he rubs at his scalp with an excessive dollop of shampoo. The foam falls over his shoulders and snakes around his limbs when he steps into the heavy spray of water. He shudders and pretends it doesn’t feel good, not _that_ way.

Hux dresses in the smartest non-formal suit in his closet and sculpts his hair into something less tragic looking with the pot of wax on the bathroom sink. That’s running low too and he should have gotten a haircut weeks ago, but he makes it work. He wishes for a moment he had some of that rose-scented powder Phasma likes to try to cancel out the yellowish-purple stain under each eye.

He shakes his head at himself and leaves the apartment before he can change his mind.

There are murmurs, whispers, flushed faces and panicked expressions as he enters the office building, more when he lands on his floor.

“Hux.” Unamo raises a brow, lips pursed. “Haven’t seen you in a bit.”

“Ships passing in the night and all that,” he says. He switches the hand his briefcase is in and squares his shoulders. “Will I see you at lunch?”

“I suppose.”

“Have a good day then, Una.”

“Shall I let Phas know you’re in?”

“No, that’s not necessary.” He steps past her, toward his office. “Una?”

“Yes?”

“Can you get me hardcopies of the financial reports for _Starkiller_? Back as far as the week before the Stockholm incident, if you can.”

“Of course, you’ll have them within the hour.”

Hux nods and continues on his way. The door to his office is ajar and there is movement inside, though he can see no one. He pushes through the door and clears his throat discretely, peering over the edge of his desk.

FN-2187 swears softly, the model aircraft atop the desk cabinetry rocking softly when he bumps his shoulder against the desktop. He peeks up from where he is knelt on the floor, halfway under the desk. “Good morning, Mr. Hux.”

He'd sent his laptop in with Phasma, too angry at the entire situation to put in the appearance himself. He has not seen the Janitor since he'd been sent packing.

Hux nods, “Morning.” He places his case down, careful not to disturb the literal toolbox that FN-2187 had brought with him today and begins to clear a space on the table where he takes private meetings in anticipation of the mountain of paperwork he’ll be going through.

“Sir, I—You’re not cleared yet.”

“To work digitally.”

“Yes.”

“I won’t be working digitally.”

FN-2187 looks confused for a moment and shrugs. “I’m not finished though, I’ve got to get this computer out of here and install the new one.”

“Pretend I’m not here. I shan’t be underfoot.”

FN-2187 returns to his work without another word, just the soft shuffle of cables beneath the desk. Hux watches the keyboard slide back toward the wall, its wire tugged. FN-2187 stands, grunting quietly and shaking out his knees. He picks up a small drill, pumps the trigger to test the battery. Hux pauses in his shuffling of the general ephemera of his office.

“Is there something I can call you? Other than your ID number.”

FN-2187 stops mid-movement, stooping to disappear under the desk again. “Ah, Finn, sir.”

“Finn.”

FN— _Finn_ nods, eyebrows up in a curious expression. “May I…?”

Hux knits his brow and then waves a dismissive hand. “Of course, I’ll stop bothering you,” he says and turns toward the door. The sounds of Finn removing the neat plastic straps that hold all the various cords and wires that connect three screens plus all the odds and ends against the wall and away from Hux’s feet. “Do you drink coffee?”

“Excuse me?” Finn pauses in his work, his face appearing over the desktop again.

“Coffee.”

“No, thank you, sir.”

Hux loiters in the break room. It is impossibly clean and organized, just like everything else on the floor that is his domain. He cannot speak for the others—though he knows Phasma runs a tight ship. ~~Although~~ there isn’t a crumb or a smear of donut jelly in sight, he takes his time wiping the surfaces of the counters and table with a disinfectant wipe while the Keurig warms. They need a new one, he thinks, it is taking far too long and making far too much noise. Or, he is simply more focused on the damn thing than is reasonable. The room fills with the scent of the _McDonald’s_ brand pod and he splashes cream into his mug.

Hux sits at the table and sips. He fidgets, knees bouncing. He wishes he’d left his jacket in his office. He feels stifled.

The clock over the door ticks loudly in the otherwise silent room. Office-dwellers pass and turn, apparently hesitant to make use of the facility whilst Hux resides.

Resigned to solitude, Hux fishes his phone from his pants pocket and opens the application menu. His thumb hovers, indecisive for a moment before he taps the _Tinder_ icon and waits for the thing to load.

_Either go back to him or get over him—either way you need to move on._

_I have moved on._

_Mm. Sure—that’s why you yelled at that poor sap who tried to buy you a drink last week._

_It was plain as day I wasn’t available. I was with company._

_You were with me and Una—it was plain as day you were the third wheel._

Hux clenches his teeth and navigates to his profile. His default photo is old—predating the catastrophe that was _Kylo fucking Ren_ and his three secret identities. The others seem fine. A full-body shot taken Maker-knows-where. One where he’s sitting on the couch, drink in hand—he manages to look tense and relaxed simultaneously while he smirks at someone out of frame.

He sets the phone down and shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. He stands and brings his mug to the sink, trying to discretely check if anyone is looking his way. Confident he isn’t being observed he returns to his seat and taps at the buttons on his screen until he’s pulled up the front-facing camera.

Hux tries to smile, truly, honestly.

He manages what looks like a grimace.

Takes a breath.

Tries again.

He abandons the attempt at gaiety altogether and winds up with something vaguely pensive. It’ll do. He sets the photo as his default and navigates toward his least favorite part of this concept. It _is_ somewhat satisfying to deal out rejections to the troglodytes that pile up in his potential match list, he supposes.

Hux swipes left, left, left— _left again_.

“Hux!”

He startles, nearly dropping the phone. He clears the screen and pockets it. “Yes?”

“I’ve been looking for you. Last place I thought I’d find you, honestly.”

“What is it, Una?”

“I’ve got about half of those reports ready if you want to get started on whatever it is you’re doing. It’ll take me a bit longer to get the rest, I keep having to call down to Sanitation to get access.” She waits for him to gather himself and walks back toward his office at his side. Her arms are full of paperwork that she does not ask for assistance with and Hux does not make an offer for. “This thing is an absolute mess.”

“I’m painfully aware of that.”

When they reach his office Finn is gone.

As is Hux’s entire computer set up.

Unamo raises a brow and refrains from comment; Hux thinks it’s a wise choice. She sets her folders down on the table that Hux cleared and begins to separate them, arranging them by date. Colored tabs seem to indicate some further organization within each folder.

Una explains briefly what she’s brought him. “I’ll send the rest over when I have it,” she says as she sweeps out.

Hux closes the door, cutting off the quiet sounds of office-life. He frowns at the room around him, at the bare space on his desk where his computer once was. It wasn’t noticeable while the tech was still in place, but there are subtly discolored spots on the desktop where the heels of his palms tend to rest at the keyboard.

He picks up the folder with the oldest date on it—the week surrounding the Stockholm incident—and moves around the side-arm of the L-shaped desk to plop down in his seat. He spreads the folder out in the empty space and begins reading the report. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for but feels like he will it when he sees it.

After an hour of reading over facts and figures, Hux sighs and leans back in his chair. He’s made it through the first folder and the text on the page hasn’t yet begun to swim. He _aches_ for a cigarette and settles for standing to pace from the window to the door.

What happened that week?

He’d crisscrossed the continent. Made several trips to and from the London office. Met with Phasma shortly in Munich before she made her way to take care of the problems in Stockholm.

Hux stops and unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them smartly over his elbows. Phasma had a team with her. If his memory is correct—and he was _certain it is_ —Finn had been among them. Whether that was significant or not was beyond him at the moment. Hux had hardly taken notice of the members of the team at the time and reckons Finn only sticks out because he's become a familiar face. He tucks the recollection away. At the very least it meant that Phasma trusted him, that he did his job well.

He resumes his pacing, feeling as though he's thinking more efficiently while moving.

What else happened that week?

It had been uneventful in so much that nothing stood out beyond the _incompetence_ of the people he was attempting to organize and their resistance to the sweeping overhaul he proposed.

He’d been relieved to get on his flight to JFK, couldn’t wait to be back in his own bed.

Hux flushes, remembering a different bed and the warmth of someone else’s skin under his palms, the softness of lips against his.

He clenches his teeth so hard they squeak and snatches the next folder from the selection on the table. He throws himself carelessly into his chair, rolling a few feet to the side and pulling himself back. He shoves the folder he’d been looking on out of the way and opens the next, _thwacking!_ the end of a pen against the pad of paper he’s been taking shorthand notes on in a rapid beat.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

He ignores it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please for the love of all that is good don't get used to this update schedule.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got a little long. Forgive me.

Hux moves whatever isn’t nailed down into a stack of Xerox copy boxes to free up the surfaces of his desk and table. Important notes are taped up on the cabinet fronts that hang just above eye-level.

He has looked over every last figure to the decimal, following the trail of money and credit from hand to hand, and moved on to communication records. Whomever was attempting to destroy _him_ , as he is convinced of at this point, seemed to have neglected to consider Hux’s sheer determination—and his own resources. The viral culprit may have wormed their way into his systems—but the elite security division that Phasma manages— _Sanitation_ included—had their own methods.

And having officially taken ownership of the majority percentage of all the scattered companies involved, Hux didn’t have to resort to nefarious means to get any of the information he required. He was entitled to it— _First Order_ was entitled to it.

It did help to have the peace of mind, at least, utilizing Phasma’s people’s skills, he wouldn’t have to worry about alerting anyone who might have a mind to resist.

Hux begins to notice patterns.

Increases in the frequencies of communications from some spots.

Influxes of funds—or large withdrawals—in others.

Oftentimes they coincide, but not always—as if some calls were made or emails sent from private lines. _Purposefully kept out of the record_. There were holes. Significant ones.

Hux curses himself for letting so much slip by.

 _Starkiller_ had been falling apart under his nose for longer than he’d thought—well before that week of flights and fighting. He’d been too distracted to see it.

Hux grits his teeth as he makes a note. He’s filled almost the entire steno pad with shorthand scribbles.

“ _Kylofuckingrensolgana_ ,” he mutters under his breath.

“Mr. Hux?” A soft voice calls from the opposite side of his closed door. “You here?”

Hux scrapes his hands back through his hair, trying to smooth it. He ran out of product. He’s a frizzy mess. The woman who runs the café where he and Phasma are regulars told him this morning it made him look soft, young. He resolved to book an appointment at _Supercuts_ if his regular barber wasn’t available that evening to have at least the mess of its shaggy length resolved.

He rises from his seat and smooths the front of his shirt, going to open the door. “Yes? Finn.”

“Hi. I’m almost finished installing the firewall on your new computer—your files have been scrubbed too. I just wanted to see if I could set up a time with you to send IT up to install it?”

“I’d rather you did it, Finn.”

Finns looks happily confused for a moment. “Me? I figured you’d be sick of seeing me.”

“Well, even if I were, I have very little trust for anyone at the moment. Phasma chose you to start this, so you’ll see it through to the end. Even the boring details—I assumed you’d be finishing the installation yourself, anyway. You took the old one away.”

“Ah, yeah. Phasma didn’t want anyone she hadn’t vetted herself in your office while you were out. But since you’ve been coming in—“

“You’ll finish the job.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll contact you when I have time. I’m in the middle of things at the moment. Having to clear out will only hinder it.”

“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.” Finn narrows his eyes for a moment, looking past Hux into the sliver of office that is visible over his shoulder. “Just give me a call. Sanitation knows I’m the primary on the case.”

“Good day, Finn.”

He nods and leaves, a line of tension across his shoulders. Hux gathers himself and slings his jacket on, locking his door purposefully behind him. The distraction has broken his train of thought, though he does feel that it is time to walk away for a moment. He leaves the office and takes a train downtown. He thinks he’s entitled to a long lunch and he’s been meaning to try _Cappone’s_ for weeks now.

He orders a _Napoli_ and walks up to the High Line, finds someplace to sit that isn’t overrun with other people trying to take advantage of the unusually warm weather of the day. The wind whips around him, shaking the leaves on the stunted little trees and making the weird wheat-like grasses rustle like a swarm of angry bees. Hux fishes his sunnies from his bag, the glitter of the midday too bright off of the water.

Somewhere between the soppressata and the olive spread he realizes that it’s nearly time to renew his visa. He finishes the sandwich and laughs, head between his hands. He can feel people staring.

If _Starkiller_ fails then there won’t be need to renew. He’ll be out of a job. There is no way that _First Order_ will keep him on with as massive a failure as it is on track to be. He’ll have no grounds for extension or renewal.

He wonders if the people he brought with him from London will stay or if his failure will be like an infection—if Phasma and the rest will find themselves victim.

His phone vibrates against him and he fumbles looking in the outer pocket of his jacket, panicking before realizing it’s on the inside. He scrolls through his main screens and sees nothing. Frustrated at the sixth phantom vibration in as many days.

Hux believes for a moment that he is losing his mind in his desperation. Willing the universe to send him a lifeline and having it manifest psychosomatically.

He opens the application menu and scrolls. He rolls his eyes, seeing the little orange bubble in the corner of the Tinder icon lit up with a _6_.

He taps on the icon and navigates to his messages.

_HEY :)_

_HOW ARE YOU?_

_I’M MATT, BTW. BUT I’M SURE YOU CAN SEE THAT. PROFILE AND ALL._

_SOOO ARE YOU JUST NOT INTERESTED ANYMORE?_

_I KNOW YOU SWIPED RIGHT. BECAUSE I SWIPED RIGHT. AND WE MATCHED._

_I AH I’M JUST GONNA ASSUME IT’S A NO._

Hux grimaces at the messages. He _knows_ he rejected every single offered match in the ten minutes he had the application open. How the kriffing hell did this person turn up? It must have been a glitch in the algorithm. He purses his lips, thumbs poised over the keyboard.

_HI._

What’s he got to lose? At the very least it’ll be an idle distraction. Perhaps focusing on his body in that way—focusing on someone else’s body—might help him to power-down the active bits of his brain enough to process this mess in the background. He’s no fool, he knows no one uses these stupid applications for actual dates.

He’s startled by the near-immediate response.

_HELLO. I GAVE YOU UP FOR A LOST CAUSE THERE._

_APOLOGIES. I’VE BEEN QUITE BUSY._

_MM. SURE_   _SURE._

_THERE IS NO NEED TO BE RUDE. I’VE NO OBLIGATIONS TO YOU._

_YOU SWIPED RIGHT. I THINK THAT’S AT LEAST A MINIMAL OBLIGATION._

_I DID NOT._

_THAT’S…. THAT’S HOW THE APP WORKS. YOU SWIPE. I SWIPE. WE MATCH. WE CHAT…_

_FUCK OFF NERFHERDER._

_HEY DON'T HAVE TO GET TESTY._

_YOU’RE UNBEIEVABLE._

_UNBELIEVEABLE ENOUGH TO MEET? COFFEE._

_YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ME._

_SO? I LIKED YOUR PICS. YOU SOUND INTERESTING. HUX, 34, SCARY._

Hux taps on the icon for Matt’s profile. His default photo appears to be his own head pasted onto someone else’s body. Poorly cut, unkempt blonde hair and terrible pseudo-vintage glasses top off a long, muscled torso speckled with moles like the night sky over the city.

There is something about his mouth that is familiar and inviting.

_YOU SOUND BOORISH. MATT, 29, RADAR TECH. AND YOUR PHOTOS ARE QUITE OBVIOUSLY FAKED._

_MEET ME AND I’LL PROVE YOU WRONG._

Hux rolls his eyes. This Matt-person is absolutely insufferable. He stares hard at the screen for a long moment.

_WHEN?_

_WHEN IS GOOD FOR YOU MR. BUSY?_

_TOMORROW NIGHT. 6. STARBUCKS AT THE PARSEC JUMPER BUILDING, 59TH & WHILLS CIRCLE._

_SOUNDS GOOD. SEE YOU THEN, HUX._

Hux closes the application before he can get himself into some deeper mess. This is…

This is even more reckless than fucking some anonymous singing tart the bathroom of a warehouse in Bushwick.

He shoves the phone back into his pocket and takes off for the train, heading back uptown and to reality.

 

***

 

Hux plunks down on the couch that night, exhausted. He’s still getting used to the controls on the new television, it seems all the buttons are reversed. Somehow he’s zoomed the picture in and can’t figure out how to un-zoom it. At least it’s just the edges that are cut off. He can’t quite tell what channel he’s on and he can’t pop the info bar up to see what the kriff any program is about, but he can still see what’s going on.

He flips through the channels mostly blindly. His brain feels like jelly anyway and he’s waiting on the delivery person for his dinner. He is disgusted with the selection. Why does he pay for premium stations if they are going to show the same five _shitty_ movies on a loop for a month?

He relents, settling in for the evening news. His fingers twitch, the phantom weight of a cigarette between them when he reaches across the coffee table and catches the straw in his can of soda before the carbonation pushes it out of the can.

The news is dreary, uneventful. It’s almost comforting if only because it is in direct conflict with the happenings of his personal life.

A baby is born in the back of a car en route to the hospital. It is named after the police officer who responded to the call for help.

A school is found guilty of fixing test scores. Grades have been challenged and a standardized exam is declared invalid.

The fare for a monthly train pass is set to go up at the end of the fiscal quarter.

A concert is scheduled to support some cause or another. Several nostalgia acts are set to perform.

Some teams won. Others have lost. The games involve balls and goals and multi-million dollar contracts.

Hux barely registers the chatter in the background when he rises to answer the buzzer. His delivery has arrived. The anchor talks about some local somebody having been videotaped threatening a photographer on the street and the potential scandal it will cause. He grabs his keys and wallet and jumps into the elevator to answer the delivery man’s beckoning.

He mutes the television while he’s eating, just focuses on the pleasant burn of the bright red sauce that he drenches his bibimbap in and the texture of the fried dumpling dough between his teeth. His head feels unnaturally clear with the heat of it all, like it will rise up off of his shoulders and float away if he’s not careful.

He changes the channel when he’s finished, uninterested in the latest on the season premières of the basic cable sitcoms and subscription exclusives. He doesn’t care about the girl with the waffles or the kid who runs fast.

He pauses on a station playing commercials and rises to clear his dishes. The ads buzz in the background while he fills the reservoir of the coffee maker and waits for it to warm. He chooses a pod of chamomile tea, intent on trying to unclench his body enough to get a few hours of sleep. The sound of the water hitting the ceramic mug and the hum of the machine is hypnotizing.

_We’ve got something really shocking today, I think the whole crew is going to enjoy it. I honestly can’t wait to see what the comments section is going to be like—and we’ve got a viewer on hold. It’s a good one._

_So! America’s sweetheart is_ not _so sweet. We caught Ben Organa out and about with his girlfriend this past week. And initially—initially—everything was just sickeningly cute and romantic. Do we have the pictures? Yes, okay, so we’ll put those on the screen._

Hux cringes, body tense and tight and his hands gripping the hot mug just on the side of too hard. He snorts at himself in derision, masochist that he seems to be—Hux sit back down on the couch to watch.

There’s _Kylobensologana_.

He’s smiling. He’s radiant. He looks relaxed and free.

His arm is around a beautiful girl with a deep bronze complexion and a pair of cotton candy clouds atop her head. Her smile is wide and open and her expression is teasing.

Hux’s stomach flips over with a thing that he refuses to name, turning him green.

The pictures flash by, the graphic on the screen like they’re falling into a pile on a desk. The pair of them stroll through Central Park. He points things out to her and takes photos with his phone.

_Ben looks totally smitten with this girl and the internet is losing its mind over this, seriously. But, anyway! The cuteness doesn’t last for long and he seems to want to remind us about the attitude he was notorious for in his younger days before he dropped off the scene. A lot of people think he got shipped off to reform school and frankly, if that’s the case he needs to be sent back because this is just appalling._

A shaky cell phone video starts playing. Kyloben is taking a menacing step forward, spitting barbs with a snarl across his lush mouth. It’s raining and the flushed high points of his cheeks look like someone’s painted him with rouge under the tendrils of dark hair clinging to his forehead and the sides of his face.

Sense-memory tugs at Hux—the feel of that hair running through his fingers in the shower, wet and silky smooth. He sips from his mug, ignoring the sting as he burns his tongue and palate.

On the screen Kylo shouts at the person holding the camera to turn it off—to leave them alone—to get a life—that this is stalking—harassment. His hands are curled into fists so tight that his knuckles blanch red and white. Obscenities fly off his tongue in his anger as the photographer eggs him on, broadcasting in a series of dramatic beeping tones and shocked looking emojis over his mouth on the screen. He’s trembling in his anger and the girl lays a delicate hand on his bicep, murmuring something to him that the mic on the cell phone doesn’t pick up. They turn and walk away.

The photographer follows for several paces, stopping only when Kylo tugs the girl out into the street jaywalking against the light through a gap in the traffic. He looks over his shoulder, shouts that, “ _You’re disgusting you karking skug.”_

The video clip ends and the screen returns to what seems to be an open-office meeting, all of the staff members of the gossip rag gathered around and facing the head of staff as he sips from a travel tumbler through a plastic straw.

 _“That was incredible,”_ the straw-sucker says. _“I wonder what his mother thinks. Has anyone gotten a comment from her yet? Has she put out a statement?”_ The staff erupts in chatter, all talking over one another. _“Do we still have that caller on the line—let’s get them on.”_

Hux turns the television off. He stares at the blank screen with his hands wrapped around the mug. It’s shocking. Unsettling. For all his bravado, Kylo was— _is_ —intensely private. When he wants to offer information, he’s like a bubbling font—when he _wants to_.

Hux thinks back to a time, post coital, when he’d pestered Kylo about the smoke-and-mist eldritch mystery etched into his skin, what the funny little illustration across his knuckles meant. Kylo’d been joking, playful at first. But as Hux pressed, he grew annoyed. He’d gotten out of bed and sat in the chair near the window Hux smokes at, a leg folded under his bare ass and his elbow propped on the ledge. _Don’t push me_ , he’d said, his tone suggesting threat only half-heartedly.

Hux had never seen the raw anger he’d displayed in the video.

The mossy-colored thing in his stomach flops around, morphing into something like pity. Kylo—Ben. Ben doesn't deserve what was happening, what had _been happening_ for months since…

Since.

Guilt and smug satisfaction tickle at the base of his skull. He’s glad he’s not caught up in that mess. He stands and takes his mug into the bedroom, suddenly exhausted.

 

***

 

Hux feels oddly refreshed when he wakes, as if he’d been freed of something. He dresses in comfortable slacks and a waistcoat, foregoes the sculpting wax in his hair.

The worried looks that pin him down when he walks onto his floor of _First Order_ drag the lightness he’s feeling down. He shakes his head and unlocks his office, confident for some unknown reason that he’s going to make real progress today. He’s going to find something that Phasma hasn’t—that _Sanitation_ wouldn’t think to look for—that he’ll figure out _who_ is at the root of all of this mess.

Who is trying to ruin him.

Because that’s the only thing that makes sense any more. It’s a personal attack, not some kind of shrewd business move.

By lunch, the entire surface area of his desk is littered an inch-deep in new paperwork. Fresh financial reports deny his suspicions and he's left to investigate new avenues.

His personal effects rise up out of the choppy river of white paper and stark black type like lonely islands. Hux feverishly scans an accounting of the correspondence records for _Hosnian Prime_.

The company is slated for gutting when _Starkiller_ is launched—part of the deal to bring the others aboard. _Hosnian_ was too near a monopoly, they’re all justifiably worried about a hostile take-over.

The business _Hosnian_ does is as broad as _First Order_ ’s and entangled closely, if discretely, with the American political system and that of their allies. Officially, they are a global aid organization.

Hux knows better.

Cap clenched between his teeth, Hux runs a bright orange highlighter across line after line of incoming and outgoing calls. The number he’s zeroed in on is for a cellular phone. It didn’t strike him as odd initially—how much of his own business does he conduct on the go?—but when he called down to have someone it up in the massive directory of personnel under the _Starkiller_ umbrella, he’d come up blank.

The records span the last year at minimum when he runs out of ink.

Hux purses his lips around the cap, chewing the inside of his cheek while he ponders.

“Ah!” he gasps. “Why didn’t I think of that? Fucking _hell_ what and idiot—“ He snatches up his personal cell and opens the browser, navigating onto the White Pages website and thumbing the number into the search box. He frowns, disappointed in himself that he thought it would be so simple. The number is a private one, cellular, based out of Washington DC.

Hux stands and paces, plastic cap still clamped between his bicuspids and tugging his lips out into an ugly snarl. His mind races, connections pinging around in the networks of information in his brain faster than he can make any sense of them.

There isn’t any missing money to track, no odd movements of funds big or small in spite of all that he'd surmised in his hasty suspicion just yesterday.

Phasma hasn’t given him any further updates on the virus.

The holes in the correspondence patterns he’s identified are a problem, but he can’t make the pieces fit.

The phone number—his only real lead thus far—is a dead end.

Or is it?

He spits the cap out and rolls his jaw, trying to regain feeling in the side of his face. He sits and dives into the stacks of papers again, heading straight for the pile of records for _Hosnian_. He searches the folders, littering the floor around his chair with discarded sheets. Finally, he picks up the phone and smashes the speed dial.

 _Maker_ , he needs a cigarette.

“Phasma—is it possible to get a list of every email address that the people at _Hosnian_ interacted with? Non- _Esskay_ addresses. The last fiscal year.”

“That’s a bit of a tall order, Mitt.”

“What about a particular department or person? All of their activity?”

“That’s doable. What are we looking for?” Hux rattles off the phone number that the calls from his mystery-Washingtonian show up against. He can hear Phasma’s neat square nails _taptaptap_ -ing against her keyboard. Someone shouts in the background and he hears the muffled sound of Phasma covering the receiver. Her muffled response doesn’t make it deep enough into his consciousness to register—something about code. “Korr Sella—so you want to know who she’s been talking to?”

“Yes,” he says breathlessly, feeling as though on the edge of a precipice.

More tapping. “No one.”

“ _What_?”

“There hasn’t been any activity on her email aside from the standard intra-office fare…. For at least the last year, probably longer.”

“Are you sure that’s who the number belongs to.”

“Yeah.”

Hux squints at the empty space where his computer screen once sat. “Wi-Fi.”

“What?”

“Everyone has fucking Wi-Fi.”

“What of it?”

“Is there any way you can see if she did anything while connected to the wireless? From her phone, maybe. A personal email?”

Phasma sighs. Hux can picture her leaning back in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I might be able to manage it? I don’t know, Hux.”

“Is it a technical problem or a legal one? Can we not access her—“

“No, if she was connected to the company’s Wi-Fi, by rights we can look at her activity.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Mitt—“

“Phasma, I need this done. I need to know who she’s talking to.”

Phasma makes a frustrated sound. “Yes, _General_.” The affection and teasing that’s usually injected into the nickname is entirely absent. “This may take a few hours.”

“You have two.”

The line disconnects with a violent clatter, Phasma’s phone slamming into the cradle.

Hux’s stomach whines, filled with nothing but a steady flow of coffee all morning. He refuses to leave the office, convinced if he does that _something_ will go wrong. He calls out for food and stands motionless in the window, staring at nothing, gaze unfocused on the street below. Twenty minutes flies by and the ringing of the phone startles him nearly out of his skin when the front desk calls to say his order has arrived. He asks them to send it up, if they can spare a moment.

The secretary who knocks tentatively at his door eyes the mayhem of papers over his shoulder suspiciously. Hux thanks her and shoos her away as gently as he can.

He tears into the paper bag and scarfs down the contents one handed, standing near the closed office door and peering at the mess. It’s chaotic, he’ll admit. It rankles fiercely that the pristine order of things has been disturbed—that he’s given into that disturbance.

He’s nauseous by the time he finishes, pitching the wrappings into the trash. He hesitates before he steps out to wash his hands, fingertips glistening with French fry grease, and use the restroom. When he returns, Phasma is waiting at his door with a pinched look on her face.

She holds up a file folder as he approaches. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.” She shoves it at him, pressing the cardstock folder to his chest.

“Personal delivery? To what do I owe the favor?”

“I came up to see Una, don’t think you’re special.” She crosses her arms. “What do you think you’re going to find that we haven’t been able to?”

“Answers. I think they’ve been staring us in the face this whole time—they’ve just been too obvious to consider. Why work by some complex nefarious means when you can make a call—send an email?” Phasma purses her lips, leveling a heavy expression on Hux. “Have you gotten anything useful out of that bug yet?”

“Wherever it wound up, they had a firewall—incinerated the damned thing pretty effectively. We can’t trace it beyond our holdings but we know it headed off-network.”

Hux runs his fingers though his hair, considering. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

“Someone has to.” She salutes, if a bit mockingly, and turns in the direction of Unamo’s desk.

Hux takes a deep breath as he sits down at his desk once again. There isn’t an inch of empty real estate left. He puts the folder down on top of the most stable-looking stack and opens it. Pen in hand, he begins to scan the paperwork inside.

Korr Sella’s life seems to be on her phone. He looks over phone calls—video chats—Facebook messages—Instagram notifications—

Emails.

They seem innocuous enough. The screen names appear to be family, friends—all originating on widely used services. A few business contacts pop up, nothing alarming.

And finally, _finally_ —pay dirt.

_kayconnix@ofamfound.com_

The address is odd. It’s organized like a corporate address but Hux’ll be fucked if he recognizes it. He circles it on one page and continues to scan over the next. It appears again and again and his stomach flutters with anticipation. He grabs the phone records that started this hunt and lays them side-by-side. He goes over each page carefully, taking note of where the private phone number and this odd email address align.

In some places, emails and phone calls match nearly identically, down to the _second_ on the timestamps. Not all of the instances line up so well, but they’re reasonable. It seems to indicate a specific pattern of correspondence during company time, perhaps even those that match so perfectly a conversation where a visual aid was offered, files transferred while discussed.

Hux wishes he could see the contents of the emails. Whomever this _kayconnix_ is must be the owner of the private number as well.

He picks up his phone and types the address into the search bar. The page takes forever to load and Hux grows more anxious as the seconds tick by and the status bar at the top of his screen waivers between a 3G and 4G data connection.

He taps on the first link in the results.

_Kaydel K. Connix_

_Junior Controller, Communications Division_

The girl in the photograph provided with the employee profile has a certain smirk. It tugs at the corners of her lips in a naturally challenging way. It makes Hux prickle with irritation.

There’s a short blurb of a biography below the photo, it mentions the girl’s educational background—her hopes and dreams---

 _…with two years as an intern at the Organa Family Foundation before becoming an official member of the team specializing in_ …

In a momentary fit of disbelief, he looks at the web address in the top bar. He scrolls up to the top of the page and takes a god look at the banner he'd hardly paid mind to as the page loaded. The Organa Family Foundation logo glows brightly on the screen.

Bile races up the back of Hux’s throat and he swallows hard. His hand trembles, gripping the phone too tightly. He places it down, struggling to keep control over himself and a cap on the anger that is flaring in his gut.

He pushes away from the desk and stands at the window, hands curled into fists at his sides. His fingernails bite at his palms. He trembles.

Fucking Ben _fucking_ Solo was a mistake.

A catastrophic one.

Hux cannot believe it took him as long as it did to see it.

He feels his face contorting. His heavy breathing is fogging the glass.

He turns and sits, fists clenched still, and looks over the mountains of print outs and files and notes all over his desk—all over is office—stacked on the table and taped up on the cabinet faces.

The yell that escapes past his gritted teeth makes his throat feel raw. With a wide sweep of his arm he sends papers flying. It is a storm of emails and phone numbers and financial reports. Papers flutter through the air and hit the floor. He stands and rips sheets down from where they are hung, flinging them in every direction.

He is breathing heavy, standing in the middle of it all when his phone innocently _pings!_

He nearly throws that as well.

He looks down at the screen, a reminder that he is scheduled to meet _Matt, 29, Radar Tech_ for coffee in thirty minutes blinks up at him.

Feeling as though he is standing outside of his body, Hux steps away from the carnage. He retrieves his jacket from the narrow closet in the comer and plucks the umbrella off the hook as well for good measure. He pockets his phone and pats himself down—keys, ID, wallet—and looks at his feet.

Papers crunch and crinkle beneath his shoes, sole patterns staining the bright white pages.

He turns out the light and strides away from his office.

Phasma materializes as if from thin air. He hears her gasp sharply and yank his door shut. The lock clicks. “Hux— _Hux,”_ she pleads. Everyone is pretending not to stare. The floor is frighteningly silent. “Hux!”

“I have an appointment to keep, Phasma.” Hux rears back, nearly colliding with a surprised Thanisson.

“What is going _on_? What did you find?”

“I don’t have time for this right now.”

“Hux—“

He pivots sharply just before he reaches the elevator bank. Phasma’s heels click to a sudden stop on the tiled floor. “I have _fucking_ date. I will deal with this _shit_ in the morning.”

Almost as soon as he slaps the down-button, the elevator _dings!_ and the door slides open. Phasma watches him board it with her mouth pressed tightly closed. Her lips curl into a snarl and she shouts over her shoulder. “You all have work to be doing so _fucking do it!”_

Her heels click hard against the floor again as she turns and the doors slide closed.

Hux’s phone lights up in his hand with a notification.

_WE ON FOR 6?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoah, Hux, chill.
> 
>  
> 
> [yell at me about space conflicts over yonder.](http://avaahren.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> Wonder what's going on with Kylobensolgana? Me too, my friend, me too.


	5. Chapter 5

His heart is hammering in his chest.

He can barely hear the band over the throb of it in his ears and volume of his own voice. He’s too close to the edge of the stage. He’s gripping the mic and the stand too tight.

He’s forgotten what song he’s supposed to be performing, words are tumbling from his lips on autopilot.

The crowd has ceased to be a group of individuals and has become a single mass—standing on the floor and reaching up to him—standing in the rows of seats at the back of the house—surrounding him.

This is their biggest show yet—finally at a _real_ concert hall instead of another crappy bar or overpriced club. It feels almost as electric as playing that show in Bushwick. The entire damn thing had been a sham, totally cultivated atmosphere, but their numbers had rocketed. That show had changed everything.

Kylo didn’t need the royalties that came along with it.

Because Kylo wasn’t real.

But it helped the rest of the _Knights of Ren_ , certainly.

For Kylo, it’s the connection. It’s the ability to close his eyes and reach out along the tethers that grow between himself and each member of the crowd—to feel the energy crackling along the line—to breathe deeply and let the mass of it fill him up like so many buzzing, fighting, stinging bees.

Tonight, he has transformed himself. He has shaken off the heavy mantle of _Ben Organa-Solo_ and robed himself in power and mystery.

The spotlights are hot, burning through his sheer tunic and prickling against his skin. His face is tight with sweat and makeup.

Once, he told someone that the pigments splashed across his face were a mask, a way of hiding in plain sight so that he could be free. Tonight, the mask protects him from the prying eyes of the outside world.

He is ghoulish, frightening.

The rest of the band said as much before he stepped on stage. Even Helge with his skull-face had raised a brow in surprise.

It’s over the top, he knows, but it’s _his_ and he can _be_ this thing—this ghoul, this wraith on the stage, this enchanter of masses—without fear and without control or constraint.

The crowd sings back to him and the swell of it makes him lightheaded, drunk with it. He tugs at the tethers between them, makes them dance and sway and shout.

Kylo Ren _radiates_.

He glows darkness, a paradox, the tendrils of it consuming everything. He imagines the ink on his skin permeating into the air around him in a malevolent cloud.

He hardly notices when someone swings up onto the stage in an easy swoop of legs from the floor. They reach out as he snarls into the mic, their fingertips brushing his cheek.

He falters, gasping like all of the air has been sucked out of the room.

The bass line drops abruptly.

Kylo’s gaze meets the stage-crasher’s for a seconds-long eternity.

Security is slow to act. Avaah’s fists are curled into the back of this intruder’s shirt and she yanks, sending him stumbling stage right and into a burly crew member’s arms. The strings of her instrument whine as they are jostled.

She glares up at Kylo, all gunpowder crammed down into a too-small container.

He turns back to the crowd and sucks in a breath. He wails.

The music swells around him.

His throat is raw and abused when it is over.

The crowd screams and he throws his head back, chest heaving. The world has condensed to the color and light and sound swirling on the projection screen of his eyelids and through his head. When the stage goes dark the screaming doesn’t stop.

Kylo is swaying, slap-happy and woozy with it as the curtain closes. He wants to absorb all of it—the energy—and cast off everything that he is like some abomination of the photoelectric effect.

“Kylo! Fuck!” Helge slams into him from behind, drumsticks jabbing his ribs. “That was amazing! You’ve never—we’ve never— _fuck_.”

The garish skull painted on his face is a blur of browns and greys in the dim on-stage lights. Kylo hardly registers the things he’s babbling. He smiles, claps Helge’s shoulder hard, and saunters off-stage.

He’s still reeling when the dressing room door opens, the hubbub from outside in the lobby filling the room for seconds while Poe and Lassa are ushered inside. It’s as if there’s a glow around them. Their expressions are unsure at first until Kylo breaks into a grin and rises from his seat at the dressing table, uncoiling like a snake from a basket.

Lassa cocks a brow high in his direction. There is a single pink corkscrew of hair escaped from the leopard scarf twisted artfully around her head. She brushes it away from her temple and it springs back into place.

Poe shuffles his feet, seemingly sheepish. It’s not a usual expression. Poe may at times be reserved when the situation calls for it, but he is not sheepish or nervous or hesitant by any stretch.

“That’s not any Benny I know under all that.” Kylo falters under Lassa’s scrutiny. He opens his mouth and closes it again, wide maw like a suffocating fish. She squints at him, something playful in her eye. Poe’s face splits with utter amusement, teeth gleaming white.

“Ben, that was fucking amazing,” Poe says, laughing. “Er—Kylo.”

He nods. “Kylo Ren, yeah.” He’s breathless, his heart fluttering and sweat prickling at his temples. He is hyperaware of the thick bulk of his hair sticking uncomfortably to his neck and ears and forehead.

“Why didn’t you ever let me come to one of these before?” Poe looks wounded for a fraction of a second. “You guys are great. The way the crowd responded—I felt like _I_ was under some kind of thrall.”

Lassa laughs and nods. “Mm, he’s right, _Kylo_.”

Kylo frowns. “I didn’t think it was your thing.” He glares at Lassa, “Don’t mock me.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not,” she says as she looks around the room. “Where is everyone?”

Avaah and Helge’s gear is spread out on the counter and floor with his own. They jump, a crash and a thud reverberating through the wall.

“Everyone else is next door—I asked them to give me a minute.”

Poe’s face crinkles in amused confusion. “Then we’ll meet you outside, buddy. Do you need help dragging anything out into the Falcon?”

“No! No, don’t go, I just needed a minute away from _them_ —for a minute. They’re…” He chews his lip, face flushing with heat. “Let’s go someplace.”

Lassa laughs, “Where?”

“Anywhere. I’ll throw all this junk in the van and we’ll just _go_ somewhere. A club, fucking… Sneak out onto the beach—Coney Island—something, skinny dip in the ocean.”

“You sure, Ben?”

Kylo frowns deeply. “Of course I’m sure,” he says as he sweeps pots of shadows and brushes and setting spray into a bag. “I’m too wired—this is too good a night to just go home.”

Poe and Lassa exchange a glance. “Maybe take some of the makeup off first though? Just,” she gestures around her eyes. “You know. It’s a little much for going out.”

Kylo is offended for a moment. He looks to the mirror, considering the state of his face—eyes and the bridge of his nose in shadow, chrome-colored ridges accentuating the curves of his cheeks and brow, mouth etched out in a startling brown-grey. He laughs at himself, at the mask he is hiding beneath.

“Point taken.”

They need a bouncer from the venue to help them clear the crowd that has gathered around the back door. Kylo accepts hugs and touches and sly kisses that threaten to miss his cheek while gum wrappers and torn receipts are pressed into his hands bearing smeared phone numbers and Instagram handles.

Kylo is walking without his feet touching the ground, gently peeling people away from himself as Poe and Lassa slip through the throng and make for the van. The _Ren_ are waiting, their gear half-loaded into the back.

“Are they coming too?” Poe asks as he makes his way around the van to the passenger’s door.

“Is that an issue?” Kylo frowns and tenses his arm, supporting Lassa’s grip while she climbs up and in, scooting over as far as she can to accommodate Poe. “They’ve got their own ride—if that’s what you’re asking.”

Poe shrugs, “Just wondering. I thought you needed a minute.”

He seems uneasy and Kylo doesn’t press. He is still riding too high, feeling too good.

Kylo isn’t sure he cares. His gut it twisting over too many feelings all at once and he can’t remember why he wanted to be away from his band, his crew, his _Knights of Ren_.

Lassa grins at him and clings to Poe in the passenger’s seat, wide enough but not technically meant for two. She radiates tense energy, excited but restrained.

The club they find themselves at is packed to the gills. It’s loud and close and hot and Kylo feels as though he’s connected to everyone and everything again. It’s perfect and overwhelming and he doesn’t want it to stop.

He’s a little drunk. The fruity things that the bartender slides across the glossy countertop to him go down too easily. He doesn’t like to taste the alcohol in his drinks—he doesn’t like the taste of straight vodka or whiskey the way other people seem to, it’s off-putting—but he does want to feel it. He flirts with the bartender. They blush and Poe elbows him in the ribs. They both wince at the burn of the rum in their next round and watch Lassa twist her way through the dancefloor, infecting everyone in her path with her joviality.

Kylo leans against the bar, watching the bartender shake someone’s drink. Their hand and arm blur as they work, making him dizzy. His attention drifts to the little television screen behind the bar. It’s nestled unobtrusively amongst the multicolored bottles of booze and mixer and playing the local news. The volume isn’t up and the captions don’t seem to quite be keeping up with the broadcast, words missing every so often. He can hear the announcer in his head, the familiar soft drone of _“And now it’s time for Weather on the Ones…”_

He finishes his drink and sets the glass purposefully on the counter. He smirks to himself, tearing into the slice of orange with his teeth and dropping the rind into glass.

Tonight had been _amazing_.

The room spins subtly and Kylo takes a deep breath, swallowing the bit of orange. He is, perhaps, a little drunker than he will admit to.

Lassa stumbles through the crowd and lands neatly in his arms. She leans up to put her lips near his ear to be heard over the music, chiding him for hugging the bar instead of dancing. What did he drag them out to this place for if he wasn’t going to celebrate? He looks to Poe who presses his lips together to keep from laughing and raises his arms in a noncommittal shrug. Kylo shakes his head and laughs and allows himself to be pushed forward on promises that his friends will join him in a moment.

 

***

 

Ben sticks to the edges of the crowd at first, keeping Poe and Lassa in sight. He keeps craning to see them, one eye on them. Poe nurses a bottle of water, determined to keep his wits about him. Ben deserves a night off after all of the months of bullshit he’s been through—the last week or so infuriating in the worst ways.

Leia had called almost immediately after the video of Ben’s confrontation on the street aired. She was horrified, of course, as they all were—and worried, of course. Ben had disappeared up the stairs with the cordless phone and slammed the door. It didn’t stop Poe from hearing the desperate shouting and sobbing. The house was old, sound carried. From what Poe understood, Lassa’s grandmother had called her as well, fit to be tied and demanding she return home, back to university where she belonged. She’d had her fun and now she was going to _ruin her bloody reputation,_ Padme’s boy or not.

Lassa hadn’t left—clearly—and wasn’t planning to change her existing return ticket.

“I’m worried about him,” Lassa shouts above the din. “This isn’t the Ben I know.”

“I think… I don’t know. Maybe he just needs to get it out of his system? He’s been through hell since—“

Ben has disappeared into the crush of bodies on the dancefloor. His bandmates are scattered amongst the throng, Poe hopes he’s just found one of them.

“Since what?”

“This guy. Just sort of blew him off,” Poe stretches himself to his full height, straining to see over heads in the crowd, looking for a familiar dark one. He breathes out in relief when he catches sight of Ben again. He’s got a pair of people wrapped around him and an expression on his face that looks like smug delight. “Everything kind of went to shit after that. He hasn’t really been out much socially since—just official family things.”

“You know, we haven’t gotten together in person in years. We were fourteen, maybe, the last time? He had this stupid little braid in his hair—it was fun to yank. And braces. He was all knees and elbows.”

“That was a rough year.” Poe laughs, remembering the awkwardness of Ben’s early teens and his own relief that he’d left that all behind just a step ahead of Ben. “Lot’s changed.”

“Certainly has.” Lassa frowns and jerks her chin toward Ben. He looks less like he’s dancing and more like he’d trying to tempt a monster expecting a virgin sacrifice. Lassa is visibly uncomfortable. “This is weird.”

“Yeah.” Poe grimaces. Ben’s over-the-top wiggling and expressions aren’t anything that seemed remotely like him. At least, not the Ben he knew. “It’s like he’s putting on a show. I’m just not sure to whose benefit it’s supposed to be.”

“I don’t like his… _friends_. They’re a little much.”

“Agreed.” Poe finishes the rest of his water in a long chug. “I think it’s time to get him out of here.”

Lassa nods and opens her mouth to speak and gasps instead when the bassist for the _Ren_ materializes from the edge of the crowd and appears between them at the bar. “You two enjoyed the show?”

Poe nods and motions for the bartender to settle their tab. “It was great.”

“Can I ask you something?” There’s a dangerous look on the petite woman’s face. She runs a hand through her sweaty hair and it falls right back over her ears. “About Kylo.”

Poe scribbles on his receipt and squints at the bassist, waiting. Lassa crosses her arms, defensive and suspicious.

“Do you really think you know him? At all?” She smiles and manages to look demure and wicked at once, her doll-mouth and too-big eyes a vicious thing.

“What the _fuck_ do you—“

She laughs and Poe’s face gets hot. “We don’t know him well, either, but at least we can admit that.” She shrugs, “Really, we don’t need to know him. We just need him to get up on that stage and do what he does.” She waves at the bartender and accepts a cheap bottle of beer, takes a long sip. “The funniest part, I think, is that _he_ thinks his secret is so well kept. Especially now, with his big dumb face all over the place picking fights—going to fancy dinners with people who don’t know where to shove their money.”

“What are you—“

“We can't have the band without him, our label has made that pretty clear. He better not ruin it.”

Poe gapes like a fish out of water, angry and unable to put any words to it. A funny sort of gurgle comes out in lieu of actual speech and Lassa puts a warm hand on his forearm. “Poe, c’mon. Let’s go find him and get out of here. This isn’t fun anymore.”

The bassist takes another sip of her drink. “Yeah, Poe. Go find him.”

Poe crumbles his copy of the bar receipt in his hand, thrusts it down into his pocket. He swears under his breath when he realizes Ben is truly nowhere in sight. The bassist laughs and Poe thinks she might be drunk herself. He can’t imagine Ben associating with someone so casually, needlessly cruel.

Lassa grabs his sleeve and tugs him toward the dancefloor. She’s shouting Ben’s name—shouting Kylo’s—and even right beside her he can barely hear her. They’re pushed and shoved and wiggled against until the crowd spits them out on the opposite side. It’s quieter by degrees in the corridor that leads to the restrooms, like they’ve stepped into a bubble.

There are a few people waiting outside either door, their noses pressed to phones as they scroll or to each other while they get friendly.

Lassa takes her own phone out and frowns at it. “I haven’t got much battery left—try calling him.”

The idea strikes Poe as brilliant and he’s ashamed he hadn’t thought of it himself. He waits, listening to Ben’s phone ring in his ear, knowing that it took one or two before the line really connects. He can feel the scowl as it settles over his mouth and brow and he’s about to hang up when Lassa puts a hand up.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It stopped.” Poe is sent to voicemail. He’s about to leave a message and Lassa shakes her head. “Call it again.” Poe gives her a skeptical look. “Call it.” Poe complies and she squints into the hazy neon lighting of the hall as if that might help her hear better whatever she’s listening for. She squeezes down the hall, hugging the wall and motioning for Poe to follow. “Ben!”

He’s pressed against the wall at the far end of the corridor with a dazed look on his face and a bright flush high on his cheeks. The lipstick he’d been wearing is smeared decadently, his lips wet and shining in the low light. He seems to shiver with his whole body, the person pressed up against him working hard against his throat and their hands fisted in the sheer fabric of his ridiculous shirt and in his hair. For Ben’s part he’s not exactly objecting; hips pitched forward and his own hands up under their top.

Poe feels like he should look away, grab Lassa and head back to the bar, and let Ben make his own mistakes.

Lassa has other ideas.

“Hey!” She pushes past a couple of giggling women who stumble out of the restroom. “ _Hey_.” Neither Ben nor his amorous conquest—or is he the conquestee?—respond. Lassa purses her lips and brushes the twist of pink hair away from her forehead in a haughty gesture. “Ben!” She squeezes past the last of the people in the corridor and comes nearly nose to nose with him. “ _Kylo_.”

His eyes flutter. He waves her away.

“This is ridiculous. You’re drunk and we’re taking you home.” She puts her hand on his arm and the person so determinedly sucking on his neck rounds on her. She steps back, lets out a little gasp of shock and steps back, bumping into Poe.

“He’s a big boy, isn’t he? Kin’make ‘is own choices.”

“No—he can’t. Let’s _go_.” Lassa puffs herself up and grips Ben’s forearm, carefully avoiding touching the other.

“Fuck off, _Crocodile Dundee_. He doesn’t want to go.” They shrug her away. Ben’s eyes are soft and glassy. His mouth has an annoyed twist and he can’t seem to focus. He lets go of his partner and rubs his eyes, smearing eyeliner on his knuckles and temples.

“I’m not fucking _Aust_ —Haven’t you ever heard anything not American? Have you time traveled from the fucking eighties?“

Poe edges closer and puts his hand on Ben’s shoulder, wedging himself between Lassa and the pair of them. “C’mon, Ben,” he says softly. “We need to go now.”

Ben’s expression screws up into something like anger and he opens and closes his mouth several times. Hands fist more firmly into his shirt, both of them moving to his collar. Ben’s own hands flutter, unsure. He visibly deflates. “Okay,” he says, his voice cracking like he doesn’t have any business in a bar. He allows Poe to pull him away and Lassa to link her arm through his. He turns over his shoulder and puts on what Poe can only assume is his best attempt at a seductive smirk, “You should call me.”

“Fuck that,” they mutter and push past.

As they step into the white fluorescent light spilling out of the just opened bathroom door, Poe can make out the shape of their jaw and the coppery-gold tone of their hair. His heart sinks.

“C’mon, let’s go home. You’ll thank us in the morning.”

Ben frowned with the entirety of his face. “I don’t think so. I’m an adult Poe, I can do who—what I want.”

“Yeah, well, your streak for lasting relationships that start in a bathroom was already oh-for-one. Figured we’d save your stats.”

Ben stumbles and leans heavily on Lassa. “ _Maker_ , Benny, how much did you drink?”

“Seven. I think. I don’t remember. Do you think they’re gonna call me?”

Poe is astonished that he isn’t slurring. He fishes the keys to the Falcon out of Ben’s pocket and Lassa steadies him against the wall while Poe brings the van around. It takes both of them to help him up into the passenger’s seat. It’s not that he _can’t_ do it himself—he does, in fact, grip the frame and hoist his body upward—it’s that when he does, he goes completely pale and the sheer mass of him sags.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I fucked up.”

 

***

 

Kylo wakes with a jackhammer in his head and a fireball in his belly. His throat feels like he’s been trying out to be the new sword-swallower at the sideshow and failing miserably. His mouth is stale and his lashes are gummed together with last night’s makeup. As he sits up and rubs his eyes the world barely comes into focus before it begins to spin.

He’s grateful that he’s wound up in the bathroom as he lunges toward the toilet on his knees and heaves. His heart is fluttering and he’s lightheaded. His face is hot and his ears are ringing and he’s angry that he’s going through the effort of twisting his gut with nothing to show for it. It’s irrational, he knows, but he can’t think straight.

He lies back down on the floor, afraid he’ll truly pass out if he tries to stand. There’s one of the good towels that Leia gave them as a housewarming gift folded up in a long rectangle on the floor that Kylo—

That Ben assumes he’d been sleeping against judging by the texture embedded in his cheek.

 _I’ve seen the towels you had in your dorm,_ his mother had said when Ben eyed the high-end tag. _They were disgraceful. You’re an adult in your own home and you should have some damn decent towels._

He sits up gingerly and settles it behind his head. The cool tile floor feels good. He dozes, wiped out, until the familiar chirp of his phone rouses him. He’s less dizzy this time when he sits up and rolls onto his knees. He thanks the Maker that no one is there to watch him crawl toward the sink and pulls himself up.

His phone is there on the vanity. Someone’s plugged it in and turned the volume down. There’s also cup from the kitchen and a couple of tablets resting on a torn off corner of paper, _Take me!_ scribbled alongside them. Ben fills the cup with water and sips it slowly, rolling his eyes at Poe’s scratchy writing. He brushes his teeth gingerly, avoiding any motion that makes him even _think_ of gagging.

Poe is sitting at the kitchen island when Ben makes his way down the stairs. It smells like coffee and Ben’s stomach churns.

“Hey,” Poe looks up from the newspaper. “You look like shit.”

Ben sits heavily beside him and rubs his face. “Then I look marginally better than I feel.”

The toaster-oven dings and Poe slips off his stool to retrieve whatever he’d been toasting. He chucks half a hot, buttery bagel in front of Ben and tells him sternly to eat. “Hangover in full effect then?”

“Mm.” Ben takes slow bites. “Thanks.”

“Not now—“ He cringes at Poe’s tone. “But we really gotta talk, Ben. I don’t know whether I should go first—or you go first—but a conversation needs to happen.”

Ben squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember anything that happened last night. It’s still all a blur. He remembers—

He remembers being half-hard in his pants with more than one attractive person rubbing up against him and the easy way the fruity drinks slid over his tongue and his hands on warm skin.

“What happened?”

“That’s what we need to talk about. Eat first, get yourself hydrated. You really do look like shit.”

Ben frowns and pushes the bagel away. “Was _he_ —“

“No, he wasn’t there.”

Poe determinedly drinks his coffee and focuses on the newspaper. Ben stares at the stick of butter still sitting out on the counter and clenches his jaw. He pretends his eyes aren't wet and ignores the tingling along the bridge of his nose.

“Is Sass okay?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. She called to see how you were about an hour ago.”

“How did she get back to the hotel?”

“She called an Uber. You sat in the van with your head between your knees while we waited for it.”

“She must hate me.”

“No, she’s just worried. You don’t—“ The house phone rings. It startles the both of them and Poe gets up to answer. “Hi, Leia,” he says in his best impression of a sunny voice. “Ah, yeah, he’s right here actually. Is everything alright?” His expression drops and he casts a pitiful look in Ben’s direction. “Um. Rough night. We took Lassa out, we all had a little too much to drink. Before? I—ah—I don’t… I don’t think it’s my place. I’ll let him have the phone.”

Poe hands him the cordless with some apprehension and Ben steels himself for what’s to come.

“Hi, mom,” he rasps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kyloben is all over the place. He's in crisis and doesn't know it yet. Next chapter will be Stresshux Revenge Date.
> 
> Comments feed me.   
> Consider me like a smut-writing Audrey 2. I will only grow more monstrous.
> 
> [sw shenanigans here.](http://avaahren.tumblr.com/post/168032120919/if-love-be-rough-part-two-aryagreenleaf)


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